


The World Through Song

by TooLateToLeave



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-15
Updated: 2020-11-15
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:54:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27573410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TooLateToLeave/pseuds/TooLateToLeave
Summary: How the sons of Feanor shape the world around them.
Kudos: 22





	The World Through Song

**Author's Note:**

> Hi guys, this is also available on my tumblr   
> https://enkindler-of-stars.tumblr.com/post/630838976717209601

Every son of Fëanor had their own way of crafting power, of shaping the Song.

Ambarussa shaped the world around them in similar ways. They understood each other, better than anybody else, and from that understanding came an understanding of the world around them. They would often stand or sit together at gathering and events, whispering into each others ears the secrets of others; nudging the world slightly into a direction they wanted it to go. Not to say that they couldn’t be loud about it though. Sometimes, the ground would shake as they laughed, darting through the forest. Other times the trees would lean away as they yelled in anger at each other.

Curufin shaped the world the same way his father had. The beat of metal upon metal hummed and pulsed in its own way. They say each of the Ainur understood a different fraction of the song. If that was true, then Curufin understood smithing. He wasn’t the best; not in comparison to his father or son. But he understood it down to his core, and it understood him. When Celebrimbor came along, he delighted in having someone to share in his love of the heat and sweat and clash of the forges. Of course, his Son far out did him; but that only made him all the more prouder. Unlike his father; Curufin felt his greatest creation lay outside the forge. Even on the toughest days, there was always something calming about the forge that he couldn’t find elsewhere.

Then Caranthir, who like Ambarussa, saw the world in intricate detail; but with patterns instead of people. It is why he was so good at numbers, and stiches. The first time he had woven a gift for his grandfather, Finwë had stared at it for a few solid beats before smiling. It was the same way that Míriel had shaped the world around her, and sometimes when he was feeling especially lonely, Caranthir would find a kind of solace and connection in stitching and weaving cloth. It was simpler, perhaps, then the world around him.

Next is Celegorm, obvious once you point it out. The hunt thrummed through his veins. When his blood sung with the wild beat of adrenaline, he could name to you everything in that forest. All the creatures understood this, for they too understood the hum of being hunter and hunted in their veins. When he was given Huan, they understood each other instinctually. When they hunted, they hunted together.

Everyone knew that Maglor shaped the world by mimicking the song. He wasn’t named Gold Cleaver for nothing after all. The way he shaped the words left the image he was painting hanging in your mind, swaying unconsciously even after the music stopped, and leaning in for more. He didn’t even have to sing to do it, there was something enchanting about the way that he spoke, even speaking quietly, he could have the whole room turned to his conversation.

Then he’d stop, and smile softly. Knowingly. He knew what effect his voice had.

Last is Maedhros.

He had wondered if he even had the ability to shape the world. Shaping stone and metal hadn’t worked for him the way it had for his parents, and no matter his pursuits it always seemed to come back to the same fact; nothing changed. He had made his peace with this, he was fine with being the eldest, the most responsible and the least powerful.

Then Thangorodrim happened and nothing came out the same.

Physically, he was a shell, sure. But Maedhros had learnt things about himself that he had never known before. They said that his fëa burned with white fire, like he was as one who returns from the dead. For indeed, Maedhros had harnessed his raw strength of will to shape the world around him. The crackling torn edges of his fëa burned all they touched and cracked into smaller and smaller pieces the further along the war went.

And yet in the end:

The world didn’t seem so understandable when your second half wasn’t there. As Amras watched as Amrod burned in the flams something broke. You miss things with only one set of eyes, and the further the war dragged on, and the more senseless the violence became, the less and less Ambarussa could understand the actions of the people around them, and the world.

Curufin could barely craft after Fëanor went up in flames. It was hard to find solace in the crackling sounds when all it could remind him of was his dead brother and father. He couldn’t even really look at a hammer after Celebrimbor left, and it was always noted that the fire was dowsed earlier than necessary.

Caranthir was fine in Beleriand originally. Numbers and stiches and patterns always made sense, but numbers and patterns couldn’t save him as he lay bleeding out on a marble floor in a foreign throne room. He had begun dropping stiches shortly after Maedhros had been captured, and the habit had stuck. The further and further into the war they had gotten, the less and less patterns mattered. They should have won Ninaeth Arnoediad, but the tightly woven fabric of his world began to unravel when the men that he had allied with betrayed them. He couldn’t bare to look at their faces as he slaughtered them, and by the time the second kinslaying came around his tunics that were once meticulously kept had begun fraying.

Hunting had always been a refuge for Celegorm. When war became too hard, he made it into a hunt too. He had laughed as blood splattered on his face, and laughed when he was cut in turn. He had mastered the art of washing blood out of blond hair. After the Luthien affair, when Huan left him, the thrum of adrenaline didn’t pulse as a beat anymore. Huan wasn’t there to howl his victories and defeat; and Celegorm wasn’t there when Huan had needed him most either. He supposed it was only fair. The choregraphed dance between two hunters was gone. No longer could he rely upon his faithful hound to be there. A partnered dance doesn’t work solo, and brothers could only go so far. When he had seen his baby brothers on the floor he forgot for a brief moment that Huan wasn’t protecting his left side; and he forgot that cornered animals bit back. And Dior was nothing if not a cornered animal.

As for Maglor’s voice…

They say untuned strings can still play a tune beautifully, and maybe that’s why his voice still hummed with power, right up until that fateful day of thievery and regrets. Broken strings can still makes sounds though, and maybe you can hear a haunted melody when you visit the beach; pretty if discordant.

And Maedhros fëa burned brighter and brighter until it burned out. Perhaps it was fitting that the brightest flame of Fëanor died holding the brightest gem in the brightest light.


End file.
